


Heartbeat

by Notoyax17



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But mostly fluff and humor, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 07:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3683229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notoyax17/pseuds/Notoyax17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes' life began and ended at the side of Steve Rogers.</p><p>Little snippets of life for Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, whose lives revolved around each other.</p><p> </p><p>(Snippets of Captain America: The First Avenger with Bucky and Steve as 14/15 at the start instead of in their twenties.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Lovebugs and Promises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2109693) by [Notoyax17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notoyax17/pseuds/Notoyax17). 



> This one was a bit of a doozy for me. It was supposed to all be in Steve's voice but I ended up falling in love with Bucky's voice, so it's mostly in his POV.
> 
> As always, continued thanks to the amazing QueenoftheQuill for a quick turnaround on proofreading this! 
> 
> Uh, thanks also to Kelly Clarkson. I've been listening to Heartbeat Song on repeat for...four hours as of this posting? (I'm still not tired of it, I might have a problem?)
> 
>  
> 
> See the end of the work for notes and trigger warnings.

Bucky Barnes’ life began and ended at the side of Steve Rogers.

 

They’d met as children in the grass lot behind Malloy’s bakery. There was Steve, stubborn and protective and filled with a grown man’s worth of righteous fury on behalf of the three six year old girls that the twelve year old Granger twins were trying to push around. Then there was Bucky, stubborn and protective and filled with a grown man’s worth of horror at the sight of the boy, who was seven years old as sure as Bucky was nine, and who was clearly going to get himself killed before his very eyes.

 

That seven year old was apparently _ten_ and _totally_ could have handled himself, thanks, but was nonetheless happy for the help.

 

The thing was, Bucky was a _good kid_. He was the friendly, helpful and smart kind of kid that the Sisters that ran their Catholic school adored. Steve, on the other hand, was a good kid but a really freaking bad influence, if Sister Carmen’s opinion mattered to him. It kind of did; after all, she was the one that bandaged them both up (frequently.)

 

But Steve was a good _person_ , even if he wasn’t a _good kid_. He was funny and smart and irritating and too damn stubborn by miles and _worth it_.

 

Because that very first day they met, as Bucky pulled Steve shakily to his feet, the boy grouching all the while; he’d smiled at him. It was through bloody teeth and broken lips. It was somehow stubborn and prideful and irritated but _gleeful_ and _victorious_.

 

It was like seeing color for the first time.

 

 

Years later or even decades after that, if you’d asked Bucky what his life had been like before he’d met Steve, he would’ve answered, quite honestly, “Gray, I think. I don’t really remember.”

 

\----xxx----

 

Bucky stared down at the documents in front of him with something that he couldn’t quite tell was horror or awe.

 

Identification papers for both James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers, marking both as eighteen years of age.

 

Considering that Bucky was just days short of 15 and Steve was only a couple months older than that, it was a bit of a stretch. Which wasn’t to say that the ID’s weren’t good. They were…alarmingly good, of the “If he wasn’t already pretty sure of his own date of birth he wouldn’t have even questioned it” variety.

 

“Where did you get these?”

 

“I made them.”

 

Bucky paused and glanced up at his best friend over the tops of the folders. “You _made_ these?”

 

Steve smirked up at Bucky, looking way too pleased with himself. “Yup! Took me a week and a half, but I think I did a damn good job.”

 

“Okay. So, explain to me again why we aren’t rich?”

 

Blue eyes narrowed slowly at him. “Because we aren’t criminals.”

 

Bucky actually had to close the folders, grab a chair, sit down and place the folders in his lap with his hands clasped over them to manage the weight of disbelieving stare he had to give Steve at that.

 

Steve tensed and twitched slightly, eyes shifting away and back as he ran a hand through his hair. “Well, we’re not _bad_ criminals, okay? Ma would turn in her grave.”

 

“Yeah, after she finished kicking our asses to Jersey and back.”

 

“So, you think it’ll be enough to get us in the Army?”

 

“It’ll get us a shot,” Bucky murmured. He pressed the tip of his tongue against the roof of his closed mouth and curled his toes as tight as he could in his shoes, anything to release a bit of the trepidation that he refused to show on his face.

 

\----xxx----

 

They worked even better than they’d expected.

 

For Bucky, anyway. Nothing short of magic wands and platform shoes was going to convince any army recruiter worth their salt that a Steven Grant Rogers of any age was healthy enough for active service. Part of him was relieved for the small blessing; seeing actual grown men both stronger and more careful than he was (or Steve was, dear Lord) killed, bleeding to death whole or in parts made Bucky wish he hadn’t been dumb enough to agree with that plan.

 

Another part of him, small and treacherous and probably right, wishes that Steve had gotten though. Believes that just having Steve there, being able to see that stubborn, smug ass little smile, would have been enough to make him strong.

 

Bucky’s won his weight in uneven battles with the strength of Steve’s determination alone backing him, surely he could win a war.

 

\----xxx----

 

When Bucky sees Steve again, and his brain is clear enough to believe that it’s really, _actually_ , him, Steve’s over a foot and a half taller and nearly two whole Steves wider. Bucky’s honestly not entirely sure whether or not he likes it.

 

Not being able to lift Steve up and over his shoulder whenever the older boy was being too sassy without breaking his back is a bit of a problem though.

 

(Not for long. Carter teaches him a good and proper fireman’s carry. Steve spends a week glaring at her and then nervously looking away with a blush when she glares right back.)

 

When things were finally slow, as slow as an active war zone could ever really be, Bucky took Steve aside, pressed him up tight against a wall, leaned in nice and close… and then punched him low in the stomach.

 

They’re close enough that he doesn’t even have to explain what that was for.

 

Steve winced sharply and let out a thick cough (clearly for show, ‘cause he’s as healthy as an ox and the serum clearly couldn’t cure assholishness) and said, “I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t completely sure it was gonna work.”

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him.

 

“Reasonably sure. Howard _Stark_ was involved right?” When Bucky raised his eyebrows at that and tilted his head back to look down his nose at the blond, because they had both gone to that damn expo and Bucky was pretty sure blindness had never been on his buddy’s list of ailments, Steve shrugged sheepishly. “Erskine believed in him. And he believed in me…”

 

Bucky sighed softly and lay his head on Steve’s chest, closing his eyes. “Can’t say they didn’t do a good job,” he grumbled, though the irritation he’d been powered by seemed to have lessened a great deal. Maybe it was because it was looking at the finished product instead of the corpse that his friend could have been. Or maybe it was because…

 

Bucky pulled back for a moment then pressed his ear against Steve’s chest again. “I gotta say, I miss your old heartbeat a bit.”

 

“Are you _kidding_ me?”

 

“Better than Mozart, classier than Holliday.”

 

Steve rolled his eyes with a grunt but still let his head rest on top of Bucky’s.  “Your taste sucks.”

 

\----xxx----

 

Steve seemed to like Stark almost, if not equally, as much as he liked Carter. Bucky liked to think it was in large part due to the man’s personality. (He was, admittedly, charming. Even Bucky had to admit that the man was fun to banter and flirt with for no other reason because he could. He was more fun than Carter was, but try telling Steve that.) There was also the fact that Howard didn’t look down on them despite his power and riches and _intelligence_.

 

Neither of them had managed to finish their schooling as earning a living wage took precedence, but they were by no means as _dumb_ or uneducated as some of the other men had expected of someone of Steve’s size and strength. Nonetheless, the workings of an electromagnet pulse gun was a _little_ above their grade.

 

But Stark could sit for hours with them and explain all the theory and workings of his latest tech, could make even the most complicated pieces of nonsense sound reasonable, could stand on the range in his only half-together suit and show them new ways to shot or holster the guns…

 

…Could smile all warm and pleased like nothing else Bucky’s ever seen whenever he made Steve laugh.

 

Bucky’s smart; smarter even than Steve, who’s a genius out on the field once he’s got a target in his sights, but it took a bit for even him to get it.

 

“Still can’t believe how far Steve’s gone in all this; not even sixteen yet.” He said calmly, almost too casually. He and Stark were standing against the back wall as they watched with something akin to schadenfreude as Carter more or less kicked Steve’s ass from one side of the room to the other under the guise of training.

 

(He and the other Commandos took bets. Bucky was the only one smart enough to bet on Carter, no ties. He’d seen her grin at Steve, sharp like a shark, as they got into their training gear and realized there was no possible way Steve was going to beat her without a weapon. He’d apologize for not warning Steve sooner later on.)

 

Stark tensed very slightly and there was a soft hissed gasp then, his eyes shifting in Bucky’s direction without turning his head. “He’s eighteen,” he said, though there was definitely some uncertainty there.

 

“He’s smart, creative and good at art. He _also_ said he was from _New Jersey_.”

 

Stark’s lips twitched up then down slightly. False information in his records and _false records_ were two very different things.

 

Stark reached up as if to run both of his hands through his hair but stopped halfway. He rubbed his palms against his pants instead then folded them behind his back. “Does Peggy know?” he asked as he watched the woman in question tackle Steve low and hard in the stomach and use his surprise to lift him bodily over her shoulder to fall with a thump on the mats. Both men cringed in sympathy.

 

“Probably. Most likely? I’m sure Erskine knew, at least.”

 

“And he just…” Stark tapped the back of his head against the wall behind him. “Do…do your _parents_ know where you guys are?” he asked, sounding vaguely scandalized.

 

“Steve’s an orphan,” Bucky supplied.

 

Stark relaxed marginally then started. He turned his head to face Bucky. “Wait, what about –”

 

“We’re talking about Steve right now.” His tone, while still friendly, was undeniably firm.

 

“Fair enough. How long were you planning to just let me…make a fool of myself?”

 

Bucky’s eyes went wide, his face a picture of childlike innocence. “What? But you’re the Great Howard Stark! I was so sure you _knew_!”

 

The man’s whole face scrunched up. “You are a brat of the highest order,” he deadpanned.

 

Bucky gave the man a wide smile and said, his voice soft and a little too patronizing, “ _No_ , I’m _Bucky_ , Mr. Stark. You may need glasses if you’re already mistaking me for Steve.”

 

He got a sharp shove and the man’s knuckles ground sharply into his head for that one.

 

\----xxx----

 

 

For a long time, Steve could say without a doubt that he knew and understood what pain was like. Having experienced pretty much every other ailment short of the actual black plague, losing his mother and just being a stubborn mule with an honor streak a mile wide meant that one gets used to being sick, develops a high tolerance for pain.

 

Steve thought he knew what pain was… but then he lost Bucky. And the world became so gray.

 

He didn’t cry right then, as he watched Bucky fall away, too far for him to ever reach. He completes the mission faster than even Phillips had expected.

 

He didn’t cry later when Peggy, gentle but firm, offers her condolences and words of wisdom that he knows to be true, may later even _believe_ , but is too tired and too full of grief to allow to take up room in his heart.

 

He didn’t cry the next day when Howard took him by the hand and led him to one of the unused back rooms in the base. Peggy was already there, sitting in a chair up against the wall to his right.

 

There are over two dozen punching bags trussed up evenly about the room. Most are blank but some have photos attached to them, of Schmidt or Zola or generic masked goons. When he touches the bags, they’re firm and much more rigid than the bags he’s seen some of the other guys use. He allows Howard to wrap his hands up with strips of cloth and, at Peggy’s urging, steps up to the first bag and throws his anger into it.

 

He didn’t cry that day but, for the first time in what felt like years, Steve _gasps_ and feels air finally fill his lungs.

 

But, as any asthmatic could tell you, gasping and breathing are not the same thing.

 

\----xxx----

 

Even though he’d had a pretty decent idea of what would happen when his plane hit the ice, Steve still started at the sight of ice water rushing into the cockpit from the first breach. It hit him in the chest and he felt that chill right through to his spine. He stood up and walked towards the center of the plane, wading through what was by now a knee high pool of water.

 

He picked up his shield and sat down slowly, the water now meeting his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around the huge shield and took a slow deep breath. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back into the water.

 

Steve held his breath, lungs burning even as the temperature in the rest of him dropped lower and lower. When he finally forced himself to open his eyes, he was glad he did. It was getting darker, but everything was still bright and blue and sort of ethereal. He removed one of his hands from the shield and used it to rub at the center of his chest the way he used to when he was younger and was having an attack.

 

He gave himself a moment then opened his mouth and breathed, allowing the water to rush in and cool his burning lungs. His body jerked and his back arched, but he refused the urge to cough the invading out. Steve was nothing if not stubborn, body be damned.

 

After a time, his body seemed to get used to the feeling (or perhaps gave up trying to argue with him) and he felt himself starting to relax. Laughter bubbled through him and he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back to rest on the ground once more.

 

Steve didn’t cry that day but, for the first time in what felt like years, Steve _breathes_ and feels something close to peace.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is technically Chapter 15 of "Of Lovebugs and Promises." But I realized that it worked pretty well as a standalone work and decided to post it both ways.
> 
> Trigger warnings for implied suicide.


End file.
